


The Ice in His Veins

by savanting



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragons, Dreams, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Short One Shot, What Bleach Might Have Been, different backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25410847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savanting/pseuds/savanting
Summary: Tōshirō Hitsugaya dreams of a dragon, and there's so much anxiety over being among those with strong spiritual energy. One-Shot.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	The Ice in His Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Bleach is owned by Tite Kubo and Shonen Jump. Sometimes I imagine different backstories and happenings for some of the characters because I still remember the days when this story and these characters were my favorite thing ever. Do forgive me for non-canon compliance: I love Bleach, but I dropped it after the Hueco Mundo rescue arc. But I still have ~feelings~ and all that jazz. Please enjoy!

The dragon had slept inside him for so long, Tōshirō couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been aware of the creature’s presence. In dreams when he was young, he would sit beside the beast and gently pet its liquid-clear scales until its body rumbled with contentment. It was a tame and nameless thing then, before the rage of youth swept through as an ever-present undercurrent, and Tōshirō knew no real nightmares at that time of his life, as if the dragon offered him peace when nothing else could.

But then he entered the Soul Society and everything changed.

The swell of spiritual power was overwhelming and nauseating to Tōshirō, so much so that he would have to retreat back to his barrack just to breathe easily. Inside his mind’s eye, Hyōrinmaru bristled like a frightened cat, always on edge, always wary, always ready for a battle or even a skirmish. The academy for shinigami drilled those notions hard into their students, and Tōshirō was no exception. He may have played the cool façade to everyone whose eyes traveled over him, but inside he had to steel himself so as not to bend under the pressure of so much energy collected in one place.

What he really tried not to do was draw attention to himself, at least not in those early days. It took years before Hyōrinmaru settled into an uneasy calm instead of trying to burst at the seams of Tōshirō’s young body. As for Tōshirō, well, he tried as best he could to ball up his energy so that it would not explode and take everyone away with it. But this kind of suppression had its own cost: he did not grow taller or older like his peers, as if he had stunted his own growth from the way he bottled up all the spiritual energy he could contain within his physical envelope.

At night, he would shiver with cold no matter how many blankets he smuggled away from the nearby storehouse. He would toss and turn as the dragon inside him grew larger, baring its fangs that looked like long icicles that could penetrate flesh or metal alike. In those dreams, It was easy then to mistake Hyōrinmaru for an enemy instead of his closest ally; they clashed in a furious dance every night, Tōshirō crossing himself with a blade that still felt wrong in his hands, no matter if it was dream or reality.

The others in his training class called him "Aisukingu" with laughter and snickers because Tōshirō never smiled. Even in the early days, he had begged off any get-togethers with the others, instead turning to training exercises to mold his body as best he could into a weapon that might be able to protect everyone he loved. Even Hinamori Momo, his childhood friend, was not immune to the “cold treatment” he afforded everyone: they rose in ranks separately as if there was no connection between them whatsoever.

One night, however, his dragon did not appear. Tōshirō stood in a stark white room, and he could hear the ripple of water in the distance. But wherever he looked was all blank, no entry or exit point, like he was locked in a cage of singular white space. No matter how far he walked, it was as if he had made no movement at all. He screamed into the void, but the space sucked the noise away like it had never been.

Then he withdrew his blade and slashed at the air. Only then did he feel a pull, like he was falling, endlessly, into a pit with no bottom. This time, his yell tore away into wakefulness, and he sat up, his clothes matted to his skin from a cold sweat. It took a long while to calm himself down – steady breathing until his heart stopped galloping in his chest.

That was the morning it started. He lifted his nightshirt to find clear scales, exactly like those on Hyōrinmaru’s body, inching up his stomach and almost to his chest. At that moment, he did not know what it meant, but that did not stop the fear from rising like a constrict upon his throat.

Hyōrinmaru did not appear the next night, or the next, or any night after that. Yet the scales kept appearing, one by one, until Tōshirō felt like he was wearing armor under his clothes at all times.

It felt like a curse of some kind. And he only made himself bleed when he tried to pry the scales off, only for another stronger scale to replace it by the next morning.

When at last Tōshirō saw anything again in his dreams, there stood a man with long-flowing hair the color of ice, his loose clothing rippling noiselessly as if there were a breeze within this scape. The man was impassive, like a ghost who no longer knew what it was supposed to be, and he said nothing – just observed Tōshirō from a distance.

“Are you the one who’s been turning me into – into this?” Tōshirō asked, gesturing to his changing body where the scales were spreading past what could be concealed by simple clothing.

“I am merely the manifestation of what you long to be,” the man said, his voice grave. “If you had not wished for more, I would not be standing here as I am.”

“What does that even mean?” Tōshirō said, withdrawing his blade. “You know more than you’re letting on – like you’re a puppet master of some kind.”

The flicker of a smile crossed the man’s face. “I see you’re drawing your weapon,” he said, and then the air quivered as another sword manifested for the man to take within his hand. “Shall we dance, Tōshirō Hitsugaya?”

Tōshirō gritted his teeth. If he had to do battle to find out the answers to his questions, then he would – even if that meant cutting this man down in the realm of dreams. With anger sparking alive in his system, he dashed forward to meet this strange opponent.

But the moment their swords clashed, another smile ghosted across the man’s mouth. “I’ve been watching you for a long time,” he said, “but I see now that you may exceed my expectations.”

The man pushed outward with his blade, and it was all Tōshirō could do to stand his ground as he was moved backward.  


The air around them surged with the beginnings of snowfall. Breath fogged out of Tōshirō’s mouth as if he were in an ice chamber. His whole body cringed away from the sudden cold.

“Be good to me, Tōshirō,” the man said, swords still met match for match, “and I’ll protect you the rest of my life.”  


Tōshirō’s gaze widened as the man’s eyes flickered from black to a blue like water through ice, pupils slitted, and he nearly staggered back. “Hyōrinmaru?”

The ice dragon laughed from a currently human mouth. “It always shocks me how you can be such a slow learner.”

Then the man – no, the dragon, Hyōrinmaru, used all its force to parry him away. Tōshirō lost his footing, the snow flurrying around him, and he fell – down, down, away from the dragon who still resided inside him.

When at last Tōshirō awoke, he found all the scales on his body had disappeared. All that was left of the exchange was the frost upon his skin, a reminder that his dragon had indeed not abandoned him after all.


End file.
